


if you wanna go to heaven

by sultrygoblin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, F/M, Smut, Unprotected Sex, external cumshots, writing challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:27:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24696004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sultrygoblin/pseuds/sultrygoblin
Summary: writing challenge- one shot - i’ve been sitting at the bottom of a swimming pool for a while now
Relationships: Sam Winchester/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	if you wanna go to heaven

**Author's Note:**

> this is for @fvckingavengers quarantine challenge. i chose young god by halsey. and we all know sam likes weirdos

_What're you doing?_

_Thinking._

It's a familiar two sentences. It's been a part of your friendship since it started. Whatever weird angle your body was contorted at, unreadable face, or peculiar activity, you always answered that you were thinking. It didn't quite surprise him that this was the way you did this, your mind was an odd place, and that would naturally lead to doing odd things. It never failed to garner an answer that by now Sam is sure they've solved more riddles with your head upside down than right side up. And if that wasn't a metaphor he didn't know what was. But this seemed different. This wasn't hang upside by your knees from an exposed bar or treating the seat of a chair as the back. Floating on you back in a hotel swimming pool, completely clothed, with an indecipherable look on your face was different. Especially when they had already finished the case and were supposed to head out the next morning. He directs his steps passed the gate, thinking about calling out but the water would distort the noises. If you were paying any attention to begin with. Which didn't seem likely.

* * *

“What're you doing?” he said anyways, a familiar sentence he can't help speaking it seems.

He watches you take a long breath, “Drowning my thoughts,” came your quiet answer and nothing else.

It's one of those nonsensical things you said sometimes that did and didn't quite make sense. They didn't happen often but they always came on the cusp of something. One time Dean asked how you always seemed to know what was coming even if you didn't realize it, citing your words back at you as if he were a research paper. You'd just smile and shrug, seemingly content with having no answer when it drove his brother crazy. He had come to the simple conclusion that it was just another one of those things that made you endearingly unusual. He's stopped trying to figure out what the words mean or if they mean anything, you had a penchant for nonsense as well. Not so much with him though. You had told him there was an honesty he seemed to command of you with his kindness and respect, you tried to speak as plainly as you could with him. Which didn't mean he escaped a riddle or two but they tended to be far more simple.

This was not that. He sat himself down on one of the cramped, metal chairs that line the concrete edge. You might be here all night and he would wait. He always did for some reason. Sam always said for _'some reason_ ' as if that were really an answer but he knew why. It was an excuse to let his eyes wander without the risk of being caught out. The opportunities were few and far between, a long harbored crush he's never quite been able to get over always seemed to take over in those moments. _Almost a decade_ , the sudden realization making him slouch in the chair. It couldn't have been that long but as he quickly ran through it in his mind it was clear in a few months it would be ten years he'd known you. Not just known you but worked incredibly often and close with. You made more sense now, yes, but not as much as he had thought you would. He could tell you everything else about you; all your favorite things, what every expression meant, what every sound communicated. But the way your mind truly worked he was sure would always be a mystery. One that would keep him from ever making the push forward, he couldn't explain how the two things correlated with each other in his mind. Just that for some reason the idea he'd never know you completely seemed insurmountable to him.

Your eyes are open and pointed at him when his gaze finally travels back upwards. He smiles, playing it off as he so often does, there's something that says this time that won't work. You know. You've always known. He has to stop his eyes from widening, force himself to breathe, anything to keep calm. Whether he liked it or not, his pining was as equal a part of your friendship as your living code. Devotion incited a plethora of emotions in a person that made them something more than themselves. He knows that because you told him that the first time you died for him. You let your feet fall to the pool floor and stand straight. It's not very deep, your hair and chest streaming with water. The thin shirt you're wearing not only clings to you but has enough translucence to be distracting.

“Something I can help you with, Mr. Winchester?” you ask with a smile, trudging through the water to the steps and climbing out as if you weren’'t a small waterfall.

“What thoughts are so loud you have to drown them?” he speaks your language now and he loves the moments where he doesn't have to play translator, “More importantly, what thoughts are so loud you'd risk chlorine damage?”

A guffaw tumbles from your mouth with eyes that are only half-seriously asking how dare you? “If man defeats God, does that make man God?” bundling the bottom half of your shirt just at your sternum and squeezing the water from it, “And other existential crises,” acutely aware of the way his eyes dragged across the newly exposed skin without thinking.

“I'm still convinced you might be Thumbelina,” earning an _oh_ look as you bent over to grab you abandoned shoes which was his sign to stand up.

You smiled, waiting for him to step around you and open the gate, “But what kind of flower?”

He did just that and you gave him a nod of thankfulness, “Another great existential crisis.”

“Sam Winchester you will be the death of me,” keeping a bit of distance to keep you water-heavy jeans from splashing him as they whacked the concrete with every step, “Again, I mean,” laughing as if you had said the funniest thing.

It still made his stomach twist in knots. Not just that you had done it but that you were so incredibly flippant about it. It was one thing when he and his brother swapped, that was blood, it made sense. But you were just a friend. A very good friend but Hell wasn't a place you went to for just a really good friend. Your eyes are on him, as if you can see the gears of each thought turning, waiting for them to lock into their final places, when everything made complete sense. Which takes far longer than you expect. Shoes off, socks are just thrown away, pants hanging to dry next to your shirt and bra. Skin finally dry and only covered by a pilfered flannel from the man in front of you years ago.

“What?” you roll your eyes, head jerking up towards the ceiling and lips moving. He can't hear or read what you're saying, “What?” your eyes are back on him.

You seemed to struggle with something, no doubt what you had been mumbling about, before finally breaking down and saying it.

“If I take this off are you gonna leave the room?”

There's a lot to unpack in the one sentence, mouth opening and closing as you stared at him with expectant eyes. This took your strangeness to a whole new terrifying and irresistibly interesting level. He's trying to think on if there's ever been an occasion where you might do that and he's walked out but there's too much to remember to pinpoint an incident. Or had you just assumed he would? He would though. Wouldn't he? He doesn't want to. Do you want him to stay? Any way he spun this he was going to have to say something sooner rather than later.

“Uhm,” furrowing his brows when he finally met your gaze fully, “No?”

You tugged on your bottom lip, thoughtfully cocking your head to the side, “You have no idea what I'm talking about,” you kept focus on the swirling greens, blues, and greys, trying not to feel hurt.

“No,” this time he was sure and his voice was firm, “You and I, we don't...” trying to find the words to say that didn't make it sound like he thought about it almost every night now.

“Says who?” working at the buttons of the flannel, a bit more difficult when one wasn't looking, “I didn't.”

His tongue darted, wetting his lips as if to argue and realizing he had none. He'd never made a move. Never took a chance. He'd just pined, silently, quietly. Sometimes it even seemed like he might have gotten over it. But it was a tack, ever-present in the back of his mind and quick to make itself known when you doubted it's presence.

“We've both been to Hell and other equally terrible places, I think we can describe it pretty well, right?” you let the fabric fall gently to the floor, he traces every newly exposed peek and valley with that swirling gaze, “But I figured out what Hell really is. It's the distance between two people that love each other,” over the translucent fabric of you panties, grippable thighs, he jerks his eyes back up, “Which I think is much worse.”

The cogs finally lock into place, “Why now?” how had you built up the courage when he hadn't?

You thumbs hook in the band of your panties, “If we don't beat Chuck, we go back,” the stretchy fabric does it's best to stick to your skin and it's far too graceful the way you manage to pull them down, “And I've never been to Heaven before,” there are no cogs, just each word slotting into place while his eyes traced your exposed slit, running his thumb across his bottom lip at the sight of dampness that was obviously not from the pool, “Are you gonna leave the room, Sam?”

“No, no I'm not,” he finally said, sending shivers up and down your spine.

He steps towards you, one after the other till he can wrap an arm around your cold waist and hold a warm cheek in his hand, “Nothing changes.”

“Everything changes,” and for the life of you you can't come up with an argument, “At least we get to decide how,” you try again, running your hands over the covered muscles of his arms, his shoulders, “How is it all going to change, Sam?”

His answer doesn't come in the form of words but his lips against yours, pushing you towards the bed as his tongue darted past your lips. He groans at the taste of you, the feel of you against him and still too far. He’s so much needier than he imagined he would be, your teeth nipping at him make it clear you have no problem. You fall backward on the bed with a yelp and a bounce.

You look more beautiful than he imagined. Damp hair and rapidly rising and falling chest, flesh goose-pimpled against the dingy hotel comforter. He strips himself quickly, watching the way your eyes trace every movement until he’s naked in front of you for the first time ever. He had thought it might be awkward or strange, it wasn’t anything like that. You stare up at him, as if weighing something in your mind. He’s never seen you move so quickly, tongue suddenly tracing the tip of his half-hard cock that wouldn’t stay that way for long at this rate. 

“You don’t have to... _fuck,”_ hand suddenly tight in your hair.

You pulled him between your lips and began to suckle gently while continuing the circular motions of your tongue. Taking him deeper and deeper into your mouth the more he grew, trying for some sense of preparation when he reached full mast. 

You were still unprepared, “Your mouth feels so good, sweetheart,” it didn’t matter.

You move quicker, tongue just over your bottom teeth to take him comfortably farther and farther into your throat. Somewhere along the way you’ve stopped being in control, his hand holding you firmly in place when his hips begin to thrust. Your hands are left to wander, over the soft skin that stretched across his hips. Pressing into the hard planes of his torso and eventually chest before tracing back down the curves of his side. This is what it must feel like to be worshiped, the thought forces him to pull you away from him with gasps from both of you.

You’re trying to catch your breath, wiping the back of your wrist across your lips and chin, and he’s watching you. Looking at you as if you’re something divine. He seems to have the power to make you feel that way, especially when he’s crawling over you, pressing you back into the mattress. That pointed gaze meant to say more than words ever could on you the whole venture upward. Till he’s looming over you, one hand holding him up the other disappear between your lips to work earnestly at your clit.

“Oh, Sam!” wetness soaks his fingers as he begins to work two fingers into you, “ _Oh_...”

He can’t look away, how your eyes close and lashes twitch, the way you bite the tip of your tongue between your teeth. Moans coming from behind them as your chest arched and fell in a beat that only you knew. He did his best to match with each pump of his fingers inside you, the pressure of his thumb. Your nails finally break skin and his moan is broken, watching the beginning of your end twist your face. He barely manages to hold on, all he wants is to be inside you. But the way your brows furrow and your body begins to rise makes it well worth it. He’s never heard you reach this volume or pitch in all the years he’s known you, his teeth dig into your neck at the thought and you shatter into a million tiny pieces under him.

“Please,” his own begging voice breaking the pants of your comedown, “Please, sweetheart.”

You nod and without missing a beat he rolls, pulling you over him as he begins to push himself into you. Your voice and breath catch in the back of your throat, filled with all of him so suddenly all you can do is desperately cling to him. Inside and out. His lips distracting you from the invading sensation, hot and heavy against your own. Hands skittering up and down your back, through your hair, fingers nimbly pressing into your muscles before they were given the chance to get sore. He fills every one of your senses with him until you find it’s you who’s begun to move him inside of you.

First a slow roll of your hips back and forth. You moan against each other’s lips, teeth clacking, and pulling until the barest taste of copper traveled between you both. You push up on his chest, using him for leverage as you began the steady rise and fall over him. Over and over. His hands hold your hips steady even as they seem to be tweaking your nipples and spread across your thighs. He’s hitting all those special places inside you and each fall presses that always sensitive bundle of nerves so harshly and yet so wonderfully into his taut pelvis. You can feel another orgasm at the edges of yourself. You’re desperate, chasing it.

“I want to cum on you,” you gasp, his hips jerk upwards at the words and you almost fall backward, your eyes definitely roll that way, “ _Please, Sam!”_

He’s sitting up, pulling you tight against him so you can fall forward limply. The snap of his hips continue, driving up into you until all you can do is cry out as your walls clamp down around him. Lost in the sensation, the salty taste of his skin on your tongue, how solid and unmovable he felt even as you began to writhe, body shaking violently as he pushed your further into the feeling you had already thought yourself lost to. He’s over you, under you, everywhere. It’s as if he’s connected every nerve ending to your core, each touch, kiss, _thrust,_ makes you more desperate than the last.

“I got you, sweetheart,” he’s saying it over and over, he might not even know he is. 

Even those words become lost. He presses you backward, driving into you and watching how your body seizes and arches towards him before losing all control and falling back to Earth. These moments have to be Heaven, he’s sure of it, and when this is all over he expects to hear something that means just that in your own poetic voice. His hand slips around your neck, there’s no pressure, just forcing your gaze to his once more. It’s as if you could reach out and touch the energy, the electricity literally sending shocks from head to toe. 

You cry out when he pulls himself from you, rubbing himself between your lips and pushing you over the edge for the final time with the languid movements. Soft and slow, almost floating, so light in comparison to all the other sensations in these hurried moments. It finally sends him over the edge, jerking over and over against you as he splattered your chest and stomach with his own release. He rolls off you, sliding his arm under your neck and pulling your side snugly against his. He’ll catch his breath, then he’ll get a rag. 

Your fingers press against his eyes, closing the lids so softly he doesn’t dare to open them, “Young Gods need their rest, darling,” he feels you sit up, he wants to tug you back but he’s so content, comfortable, “There’ll always be time for more worship.”

Till the end of time, regardless of how soon that might.


End file.
